


The Enemy of My Enemy

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Foul Language, Gen, Slow Burn, The Red War, lots of insults, the Farm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-06 15:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16835338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: The enemy of my enemy is your friend... Or at least it should be. They might have a similar goal, but that does not make them allies in this war. At least, not at first.





	1. Chapter 1

_Before he ever meets Suraya Hawthorne, he has the Guardian’s Ghost pull her record from the City’s archives. It is disturbing. Larceny. Assault. Battery. Threatening a militia officer. Disorderly conduct. Vandalism. Weapons violations. Impersonating a militia officer. Destruction of public property. Arson._

_“How can the denizens of the Last City rally behind a malefactor such as this… Hawthorne person?”_

“Send three patrol teams to the walls. Wait for the Cabal to finish their sweeps, then go in and collect the caches from the Underground. They should all be tagged. Prioritize the food and medical equipment, the guns can wait.”

_“If the Almighty is going to wipe out our sun, Commander, does it really matter who they rally behind?” Sloane’s fists are clenched though. She does not understand it either._

“But with the arrival of the Commander’s fleet, we have more fighters-”

“Guns won’t feed the survivors. We won’t need weapons if everyone starves before the fighting starts. Rations and medical equipment are our priority.”

_“How many refugees does this ‘Farm’ have?”_

_“When we left, maybe several hundred thousand? Hundreds more were arriving by the day.”_

“I’ll alert the clans, see if any of the other Guardians would be amenable to help.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Um, Ma’am?”

Hawthorne does not turn around. “I know he’s there, Ramos. Thank you.”

_“As it is, they could use your leadership, Sir. I will do what I can from here.”_

_“Prepare the fleet. I will take whatever combat ready vessels we have head to this ‘Farm.’ The citizens will need someone more savory to look to than some runaway miscreant.”_

They are alone when she speaks, still with her back to him. Her voice is low and clear as she repeats to him, verbatim, his final announcement to the people of the Last City. “The Cabal have affixed a device to the Traveler and severed our connection to the Light. We cannot hold the City, and we cannot protect you.” A breath. “We are setting a rally point elsewhere in the system - watch for a broadcast. We will return to the City someday, but… I do not know when.” She scoffs. “Be safe. Be brave.”

Zavala does not move a muscle, though hearing the words repeated back at him makes him tingle. Hawthorne continues to look at the map tacked to the wall of the barn and wonders how he thinks the situation looks on his side of the chessboard. Somewhere further behind them, Shaxx can be heard yelling at Guardians to suck it up and fight.

_“Hawthorne believes you abandoned her and the survivors.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“We’ll go to Nessus, try and locate Cayde and Ikora, but… I don’t think she’ll be very accepting of you, especially not at first.”_

_“Yes, and what does this criminal know of war? Where was she during the Great Disaster or while you and your brethren were slaying Gods and preventing SIVA from spreading and threatening our very existence? I do not care if she is accepting. She will accept or she will stand aside.”_

“Are you going to stand there and glare at me all day, or do you have something to say, Commander?” His title is all but a sneer.

“You are the one leading this operation.” It is not a question. “You will acquiesce to myself and the other Guardians the necessary-”

“Last I checked, you and me? We’re the same. Unless you also got your powers back like that friend of yours.” She still stands, evaluating the map. Fingers brush against points, and plot imaginary lines. “I will acquiesce nothing.”

That caused him to bristle. “These people need hope! Continue to feed them, and provide what you will, but I will oversee tactical-”

She moves too swiftly for him to see, for he blinks and the barrel of a sniper rifle is all but touching his forehead. It is not the ideal weapon for a short range kill, but it is a weapon all the same.

“They need hope, you say? It’s about time you Guardians got with the program. While you were off planning your resistance - how’d that work for you, by the way - my people and I have been bringing back the survivors you left for dead.”

“The Guardians were being hunted in the streets for sport!” He does not look away from her, or her weapon pointed at him, blue eyes sparking with fury.

“So were the children! So was EVERY SINGLE ONE of us.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You want hope? Go take a walk around out there. Look at them working together. Humans and Guardians. Together. You need hope? That is hope. We are the last hope. We are the only hope.” She lowers her weapon, sets it off to the side. He thinks he could reach it if he needed to. “You want to win this war, you need the rest of humanity’s help to do it. Without your Light, you are just as much a Guardian as the rest of us.”

“Not at all, then.” His voice is low, eyes narrowed on her.

She rolls her eyes. “Like I’ve been telling the rest of your mopey-ass people: anybody who can pick up a gun and shoot is a Guardian. If you’re going to have a pity party, stay the fuck out of our way. We have work to do.”

“The Cabal have a weapon pointed at our Sun. They will kill us all.”

“Not if we kill them, first.”

He steps into her personal space. “You naive fool. Do you really think it to be that easy?”

She stares down her nose at him, their eyes even like their height. “No. I don’t. But I know that if we talk about it like they’ve already won we’re never going to. Buck up, Commander. We’ve intercepted their transmissions. We know about the Almighty. We’re going to find a way.”

The air leaves the Commander’s lungs like a deflating balloon. His body looks more tired than hostile. “And just what do you know about planning a counter offensive?”

She shrugs. “Enough to know that we have enough people here to take back the City, when the time comes. The time is going to come.” She turns to regard her map once more, giving him her back. “There are fourteen thousand some-odd clans out there, across the Farm and the City. All of which are made of civilians and Guardians willing to work together - to fight together to protect everyone and take back what we’ve lost. That’s what I’ve been working on, along with intercepting enemy transmissions, keeping the Fallen off our backs, and making sure the coming Winter doesn’t cut our numbers in half. Is that enough for you? I don’t have centuries of battle to call upon to help me out like you do, oh wise one, but I figure keeping our people alive is our best chance at surviving this war.”

The Vanguard Commander steps forward and looks at her map. “You believe we that can win this war? Put down this Ghaul and his Almighty?”

Hawthorne nods. “Eventually, yes. But I think we have a lot of work to do to get there.”

“My Fireteam - the other Vanguards will be arriving eventually.”

“Then it looks like you’re stuck with me in the meantime. Lucky you.” She hands him a stack of paper. It’s all hand-written. “These are the most important scout reports we’ve compiled since Tower-fall. Figure you’ll want to know what’s happening in our little slice of paradise. I’ll assemble my people to give you a briefing… so long as you promise not to attempt a hostile takeover.”

Hawthorne reaches down, slings her gun over her shoulder and turns back to him. He’s flipping through the reports rapidly, trying to read at a speed far too fast for actual absorption. “Bring those with you.” She instructs. "Let me give you the tour and find you a place to stay.”

“That will not be-”

“You want to give them hope, right? We don’t have to like each other - I still think you’re a jerk for abandoning us, and I’m sure you have something far more poetic you could call me. But we need to be seen together so they know we have a common goal, and are willing to set our differences aside for their best interest.” She straightens her back, cracks her neck with two quick jerky movements and audible pops. “I’ll try to move past my preconceived notions if you will, though I feel like I’m doing all the talking and you’re just standing there being all silently judgey. And I hate that.”

“I know very little about you.” It’s a lie. He wonders if she knows it, too. He memorized her file, unwilling to bring it with him across the galaxy.

Umber eyes regard him coolly. She’s wary, and has every reason to be. Her danger sense has kept her - and the survivors - alive this long, after all. “Pay attention. You just might learn something.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he truly argues with Suraya Hawthorne, it is an ugly, violent clash of words that leaves reports scattered like petals in the wind, but across the floor of the barn. He cannot remember the last time he was so red hot angry; This woman just pushes every single one of buttons repeatedly until he loses control of his emotions.

They are perfect opposites, he is the hot to her cold. To her credit, she does not berate the Commander in front of his peers. She has, however, come up with at least seventy-eight different ways to call him a coward deserter and cycles through them when they are alone in the back of the barn pretending to plan a war but actually warring with each other.

“The best way to get them into the Commercial District is to cut up and around to the west, go through the tertiary gate, and then weave through the market.” If he was not such a dick about literally every detail, she might have found his voice nice to listen to, but it truly grated against every one of her already frayed nerves. Zavala rolled his eyes when she inhaled, about to start her counterpoint. “Ah yes,” He drolls, “Tell me how you could do it so much better. The floor is yours.”

“I fucking hate you,” She fires at him, without missing a beat.

He harrumphs. “The feeling is overwhelmingly mutual.”

“Caitiff.”

“Louse.” He raises an eyebrow. “That means bad person, in case your infantile brain cannot-”

“Fuck you.” Hawthorne’s arms cross. “This changes nothing. Even if we send a team out, they won’t return for a week. There are seven hundred eighty thousand people to feed in the here and now. We need to send out hunting parties. If we slaughter the livestock we won’t have the possibility of them breeding and we’ll just shoot ourselves in the foot. Again.”

“Our current rations will not last long enough for them to make it back?”

“Not unless we starve anyone who isn’t sick or with child. I can lead a group of hunters. We can thin the herds of deer in the area. Spread out through the EDZ if we have to.”

“And how long will that last?”

“Hopefully long enough for you to win us this war like you keep claiming you can do, without help from me.” She shrugs. “I’ve lived off of ferrets before. Sheer numbers are the issue. Living off the land is not.”

“You are a vile creature.”

“Eating ferrets makes me vile? What does that make you, the man who fled the city and allowed the Cabal to roast us on spits like a rare delicacy?”

Zavala’s left eye twitched. “They did not do that.”

She pursed her lips. “Not like you would know, considering you turned-tail and ran with your tail between your legs.”

“I held the gates for as many of the transport ships as I possibly could!” He bellows at her. Behind them, Shaxx falls silent mid sentence.

Her eyes narrow. “And how many of those did the Cabal wipe out because your grandiose, well-equipped armada was so prepared to stand up to the full weight of the Cabal at a moment’s notice?”

“Shut your mouth.” His words are venom, and he is more snake than the deadliest of Cayde’s Hunters, ready to lash out at one wrong word. “How dare you!”

“Yes,” She breathes back, “How dare I. How dare I walk into your City while you’re abandoning it like the lily-livered piece of shit-” He slams his fists down on the table.

“Do you not think I know the magnitude of what we’ve lost? I do. I have read the reports-” He throws them at her and they scatter- “I see their faces in my sleep. This is one of the atrocities of war. And oh, have I fought wars. Do you think me inexperienced in the art, Hawthorne?”

Her eyes narrow as she parries, “Do you know how many Guardians begged me to kill them, entrails leaking from their bellies, limbs dangling by only skin-”

“My brothers and sisters-”

“Died with honor, as they lived. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Would you have seen us all dead, Hawthorne?” He advances on her, eyes bright with emotion. “Would you rather we line up in front of you to take the hits and let the Cabal finish us off for good? Who would save the survivors then? Who will be left?”

Suraya sighs. “There is an entry to the sewer system between the secondary and tertiary gates. A good metal saw will get them into the sewers. I’ve plotted the whole thing already. It’s your people, so you make the call.” She looks away. “And, I am not asking the Guardians to line up as tribute for our lives. I know what you’ve done for humanity. All of you.”

“That I doubt.”

“…But to fear for your lives constantly because you are mortal, that isn’t how to live. Take it from a mortal.”

“If it were any other, perhaps I would.”

“If it were any other, they would lie to you.” Her eyes flash like cooling magma when she speaks. “I respect you just this side of enough to tell you the damn truth.”

“Ridiculous. You? Respect me? And when did this happen?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” She drifts around him like a satellite in orbit as she leaves. She does not look back.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Do try not to fight with the Commander, Suraya. He may be their leader, but he too lost his Light. We are used to our mortality. They are not.”_

“I know, I know.” Hawthorne sighs into the handheld. “He just makes me so mad.”

 _“He makes you think,”_ Devrim Kay VIII reminds her. _“He is an invaluable ally, or he would be, if you’d try to work with him instead of against him.”_

“I am trying! He second guesses my every move.”

“He’s second guessing himself, too, as you so scathingly informed me. Perhaps a patient, gentler touch would help.”

“You do remember who you’re talking to, right? I don’t exactly do gentle.” Her voice crests in that nasally tone it gets when she’s staving off defensiveness.

“ _I do. I’m speaking to Suraya Hawthorne: the den-mother of the Clans, leader of the Farm, protector of the survivors.”_ His voice trails off. _“But I am also speaking to the girl who would have tamed every bird in the City if she had been presented with the opportunity. How many times did I find you with them perched upon your shoulders or eating from your hands?”_ He chuckles fondly. _“I digress. I remember the little girl you once were, Suraya. You may not be gentle, but you certainly can be patient. Perhaps it will be enough.”_

She sighed. This was nothing like bird taming, but it was hopeless to argue with Devrim when he started reminiscing. “I suppose,” She concedes after a few beats of static. The sound of voices outside draws her attention. “Well, sounds like my people are getting antsy. I’d better go.”

_“Alright then. Do be safe out there, Suraya.”_

“You too, Dev. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She cuts the comm-link at the same time as something shattering rings out just outside the tent she’s been holed up in. Scrambling to her feet, she totes her weapon over her shoulder and steps out into a fifteen-person brawl. Well, she thinks, this is not the kind of gentle Devrim was talking about.

It’s a rag-tag group of Guardians and regular Lightless, trading blows and screaming obscenities at each other. She doesn’t recognize any of the Guardians, which means they have come back from Titan with Zavala’s people. The faintest scent of methane in the air confirms her hypothesis. It never seemed to go away, and clung to their clothes like the stench of betrayal. Or at least, that’s what she told Zavala last time he tried to tell her how to patrol and secure a perimeter like she hadn’t been doing it every night since this war began.

“What is the meaning of this?” Suraya cursed under her breath. Zavala literally appeared at the worst possible times. Constantly. The Awoken Titan strode up to the site of the altercation, luminescent eyes darting between the parties grabbing fistfulls of each others’ armor and attempting to punch each others’ lights out.

“The meaning of this,” One of the Lightless men bellows, “Is that you and your kind aren’t welcome here. You brought down all of us this on us because you weren’t good enough-”

A female Warlock, sporting a bruise under her eye bristled. “How dare you-”

“Stop.” The step forward doesn’t surprise her, but the fact that she speaks without thinking it through does. Hawthorne forces herself to go with it, not that it can be taken back anyhow.

“Oh please,” One of the other men drawled. “It isn’t like you like ‘em either, Hawthorne.”

“Meanwhile,” A voice calls from the Warlock’s side, “Our Commander who has seen us through ages of war has to work with a criminal like you-” Hawthorne’s eyes narrow as the Titan continues, now directing his ire at Suraya, “We should have just taken over. None of this would be hap-” His voice cracks abruptly as one of the born-Lightless punches him in the jaw and things really go to shit.

Hawthorne looks across the scuffle at Zavala. He looks furious, not sure at all how he should intervene. He does not meet her gaze. She sighs. Dev’s words about second guessing himself ring truer than she’s been willing to admit, it seems.

She sees the glint of the blade as it drops from a sleeve into one of the civilians’ hands. So much for letting them work it out physically, she thinks, as she drops her rifle and jumps into the fray, putting herself between the loudmouthed Titan and a lanky human with sandy hair.

The human catches the base of the hood of her poncho with the blade, barely tearing an already tattered garment. He jabs again before his eyes widen at the sight of the slender, nimble woman who was not his intended target. Suraya has him flat on his belly seconds later, the knife pinned - with both of his hands - behind his back. She squeezes hard enough to hear a pop, and the knife falls from his hands as he yells. Around her, the crowd who gathered to watch the spectacle unfold, the other participants in the spectacle, everyone falls silent.

“Did you just attempt to kill one of my people?” She questions, eyes a fierce amber as they flicker down at a freckled face and pale blue eyes.

“Hawthorne, please!”

“Answer my question. Did you not just attempt to kill him?”

“He’s not one of our people-” Her knee in the small of his back digs a little bit deeper.

The fierce gaze of a leader turns to look at the assembly of humans and Guardians. The Titan has taken a few steps back, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Commander. The rest of them stand where they were throughout the fighting, mostly in a wide circle around the pinned male.

“Commander Zavala,” She sees him straighten out of the corner of her eye. It’s probably the first time she’s addressed him without malice and with respect. “Has seen it in his heart of hearts to come back here and help lead us to do what he could not at the onset of the Cabal invasion. He has no Light, just like the rest of his subordinates, bar one. They returned,” She breathes, “Aware that not all of them will live to see victory. We are not Guardians. We do not understand what they’ve lost.”

“Hawthorne-” The voice below her squeaks.

“No. You will listen to me.” Another glance around confirms she has the attention of the crowd. “Anyone who seeks refuge in this place, anyone who wishes to fight to take back the City, is our people. Your people. Guardians or not.” She focuses her gaze downward, to the man trembling beneath her. “You raised a weapon against one of your brothers. Do you deny it?”

He makes a sound that’s more fright than response.

“I believe Hawthorne is speaking to you,” Zavala’s voice cuts in. He rounds the man so that his boots are nearly kissing the crown of the pinned man’s head. “You would do well to answer our leader.” The Guardians murmur. Hawthorne looks up into steely aqua eyes. He blinks and nods. Okay, acknowledgements all around. Good. One positive step forward.

“Fine.” She releases the man who refuses to answer and he attempts to scramble away. FOTC officers are ready though, drawn to the sounds of scuffle, and intervene on Hawthorne’s barest nod. “Lock him up.” She looks over at the Titan who was nearly assaulted. He’s watching her carefully. “Let’s get things out in the open, shall we?” She sighs. “I do not like your Commander,” She says to the Titan. “He does not like me. But-”

“Working together is the best chance we have,” Zavala finishes, taking the words directly from her mouth.

Suraya tilts her head back in a silent groan. “I do not like it when you finish my sentences,” She grits out. Her nostrils flare. Deep breaths, Suraya, she coaches herself. “But, yes-”

She makes sure they’re making eye contact.

“Zavala is right.” Saying it doesn’t actually make her want to vomit… much. And the startled look on his face is totally worth the concession.


	4. Chapter 4

He wonders if she knows he can hear her, discussing things with FOTC and the City’s Militia. He knows where their allegiances lie, and it astounds him that it is not with him. Has he not proven his merit? How many times has he died and been brought back for the City? Is he not the brave leader they need?

He believes be is. Meanwhile, she is a child playing dress-up in her mother’s closet: comically out of her league, trying to fill shoes that are twice her size. He hears her muttering to herself plenty. She can barely stand large quantities of people. She is an outsider, a wanderer.

“Supplies, security, transportation, communication, scouting… and that’s just this morning.”

She stands between him and his goals, as though she is some check and balance he needs to assure he is acting in humanity’s best interest. As the days and weeks go on, she is not nearly as infuriating as she was at his arrival, but she remains a thorn in his side. What did she think she was going to change?

Certainly not her criminal record, that’s for sure. Rules are not meant to be broken. She thinks they are. She is wrong.

It is a dark morning - used loosely, it is certainly after midnight but well before dawn. He hears a rustle from beneath his landing, she was apparently on watch again, silent enough that the untrained ear would not pay it any mind.

He peers over the landing and sees the scope of her rifle peering out into the trees. He’s not even sure what she sees, he can’t see in the dark nearly as well as he could with his Light, and humans aren’t gifted with special abilities like that to start with.

There’s a trigger pull, one that abruptly pierces the serene silence that is the Farm with a crack of man-made thunder. She drops from the balcony beneath him at a run - he hates that he has to use the stairs or drop one level at a time now - and sprints toward the tree line - and he follows not far behind.

She is stealth and quiet, the foil to his loud and visible as she darts ahead. He’s seen her pin a man before, but part of him wants to know exactly what Hawthorne is made of. She is not screaming out for help, and yet she’s shot at something, so there is very clearly a threat she does not want to make known. Bolts of blue come at him through the trees. Heat-sensing arc pulses from a Vandal’s rifle, he realizes, as he hits the dirt out of instinct to let them dissipate against a tree behind him.

Two more claps from somewhere above and ahead of him startle him more than he cares to admit. Apparently, she has scaled a tree to fire from. He did not see a flash or the slightest glint of gunmetal blue in the pale moonlight leaking through the trees.

He hears a baby crying. Tiny, frail wailing, barely a chirp above the ambient noise of the forest.

The comms crackle. “Don’t move. They see you.”

A wraith-like yell comes from his left, and the bullet comes down at close range, the head of a dreg exploding into tissue and ichar. This time Zavala sees the flash.

“There is a baby,” He calls over the communicator in his wrist once he finds himself in better cover.

“Do you have eyes on it?” Her words are softer, careful. She’s lowered the volume on her output so that he cannot hear his own echo, which means she believes herself well hidden. They are only a few hundred yards apart.

“There is a bundle, against one of the trees. Your ten o'clock.”

“It’s a bomb. Ears.” He does not see the glint or flash, but he hears the thunderclap erupt before his ears ring despite him covering them and a louder boom makes the ground shake.

“They are the worst sort,” Hawthorne says, dropping down and approaching him while the trees around the location where the bundle had been burn. He looks bewildered for only a moment before rage contorts his face. “Come with me.”

He does, following as she walks through the forest with purpose, still in shock that the Fallen have produced such a horrific trick to lure them with. The woods eventually give way to the edges of their camp, illuminated only by the remnants of the Moon and the corrupted light of the Shard.

There are guards sitting around the edges. All armed. None looking concerned. The Guardians straighten at the sight of their Commander. The civilian forces nod politely but continue to flick their eyes about.

“Did they find them?”

A nod from one of the Guardians, sitting on the ground with a pulse rifle to Zavala’s right. “Just like you said. A couple hours into the woods, just off the trail before their camp. Camp was vacated already. Scout team brought back their remains.”

Hawthorne nods back, seemingly satisfied. “Buried?”

“Not yet,” One of the Civilians answers. “We’re a little tight on watchers. Extra guards near the creek now, too. Nobody left to dig.”

Zavala looks at her stoically, though his stomach has been steadily churning throughout the conversation.

“We’re doing the best we can,” She says to them. “Thank you for doing your part.”

There’s a few two-finger salutes, and a couple quiet replies of, “Ma'am,” before they all politely acknowledge the Commander as the team takes their leave.

Hawthorne continues through the Farm’s tent-city, and Zavala is helpless but to follow. She has not actually told him anything, but he’s putting the pieces together. She makes a quiet loop around the large white tents that are their triage and makeshift hospital, coming to a stop before a third, smaller white tent.

“Dev,” She means Devrim Kay, a militia man that Zavala would be infinitely more thrilled to be working with, “Used to tell me stories about tricks the Fallen would play to lure them into traps. Bombs, disguised as human babies.” Her eyes are dark as she pulls open the flap of the tent. The smell of death inside is overwhelming. She steps inside and closes them within, lighting a lantern that hangs from the frame above them.

“They would record the sound of babies, children, women - anyone who pleaded and begged while they were tortured, really - and wired a speaker to the bomb to play the sounds on a loop. If you could hear the cries, it means the bomb had been activated.” She peeled back one of the tarps laid over the bodies. A baby and their mother, throats slit. Their faces had been washed clean.

Suraya covers them back up, gently and with reverence. “Dev warned me this would happen, that the Fallen are desperate and vile, would do anything they could to thin our numbers.” Her lip trembles for the slightest second - if he had blinked, he would have missed it. “Warn anyone you send out. I refuse to let any of our people die because of their disgusting games.”

Her voice is like a crashing wave, loud and rushing at the end. She turns abruptly afterward and exits the tent, and he pretends not to hear the sob she tries to disguise as a shaky exhale when she walks around the back of the tent outside.

Zavala offers a prayer for the souls of the lost. He’s not even sure that it is prayer, but an overwhelmingly desperate plea for the Traveler to do something, anything. He feels so unbelievably helpless these days.

After he is done, he tries to force himself to call her naive and inexperienced; Two deaths should not make her come apart if she is to lead these people. When he finds he cannot, his lips thin to a pale blue line and he feels anger at himself instead.

When he dims the lantern and exits the tent, Devrim Kay is waiting for him. They shake hands in the quiet of the night. He has just returned from Trostland, and plans to return in the coming days.

“She is giving you trouble, I’m sure,” Devrim says, matter-of-factly. “She knows how to do little else, at times.”

Zavala nods. “She is… trying,” He admits. They make their way back to the control-center that is the large barn and surrounding cluster of buildings. “We have very little in common.”

“Perhaps,” The militia man concedes. “Do you know why all these people follow her? Why we answer to her?”

Bright blue eyes look back at him, practically pleading for the answer that seems so very evasive to the Lightless Titan. “No,” Zavala admits.

“Suraya Hawthorne is everything I’m sure you’ve read on her. I’ve bailed her out of jail plenty, I won’t deny that she is quick to anger. But what you haven’t read, is what she’s done outside of the walls. The shipments she would send into the City. Caches of food, supplies, Golden Age tech. The refugees she would lead to the gates from who knows where.”

“It does not change what she has done.”

“No, it does not. She does not follow rules, Commander. But she has a moral code very closely to your own. She is fiercely loyal. You give her your trust, and she will give you hers. Break it, and it is liable that you feel like she will never trust you again. But she will, if you give her just cause.” Devrim looks toward the Shard and back.

“It does not explain why the people follow her.”

“Hope. She knows the Farm won’t hold forever, she just wants the people here to feel a sense of unity that she did not feel within the walls of the City. Even if she tells you she hates it there, she wants to help get the City back for the people, because that’s what they want. Because deep down, she is a good person with a heart of gold and the best interests of her people in mind. Sounds an awful lot like a situation I’ve heard of, where a Commander agrees to work with a high-ranking bandit to protect humanity’s best interest despite his many reservations.”

Zavala only hums, looking away at the moon. “Perhaps. I will reserve my judgement.”

“No, you won’t,” Devrim says with a laugh. “You’ve already judged her. You’re both stubborn to boot,” He continues. “But your impressions will change eventually. Something tells me, you’ll be seeing eye-to-eye before this war is over.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I suppose not,” The human relents, stepping into the doorway of the barn to reach for something. “In any case, I am off to my nook to catch some sleep before the morning comes. There is a shovel inside the barn if you would like to help her out.” Devrim offers a respectful nod. “Good night, Commander.”

Devrim is almost past the farmhouse before Zavala hears the sound of metal on dirt in the distance. He peers into the barn and sees a shovel hanging from a rack just inside the open front of the building, the outline of a second one missing beside it. He sighs and removes it from the rack, following the sounds to a rapidly expanding graveyard.

She hears him approach - he is careful not to be too quiet and startle her. “I heard you could use a hand,” He calls, and she turns her head to face him. Her hood is down, and there is sweat on her face.

“Definitely could,” She agrees, jumping up from the shallow hole. “Want to start on the one next to me? I already marked it off.” She tips the functional end of the shovel toward the markers.

Zavala nods. “Consider it done.”

They work together quietly, their only interaction a break in which Hawthorne hands him a canteen of water she produces from her pack, letting him drink his fill before finishing the rest. It’s in this silence of the brightening morning sky that he’s hit with the realization that Suraya Hawthorne truly, cares. Enough to bury her dead, to share with those she despises (namely, him), and to try to unify their people for the greater good.

Maybe Devrim isn’t too far off, but he won’t be admitting that out loud any time soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the countless hardships, losses, and devastation that the survivors faced, they always seemed to find the time to celebrate something. Even if it was being able to limp away at the end of the day, just barely more alive than their enemies. It never ceased to surprise Zavala how resilient humanity was, even in the face of such dire odds.

He sat with his back to the wall at a picnic style table under a ravaged tarp turned into a tent. Of course the tent city that was the Farm managed to find itself a speakeasy. Of course the farmhouse had moonshine and kegs of ale kept in a cellar four times the size of the house itself. The absurdity of humanity’s priorities was almost comical, but Zavala couldn’t deny that the bitter ale was certainly more refreshing than the water they boiled in large quantities every day to ensure no one drank anything contaminated and inevitably spread sickness throughout the population.

Cayde was across the room, newly returned from Nessus. Bless the Guardian, Zavala thought, every time his eyes rolled in the direction of his Fireteam’s resident charlatan. He was startlingly grateful to have one of his own back. Not that these people weren’t his own, but Cayde connected easily, or at least appeared to assuage the tension with his usual song and dance.

The group of assorted humans and Guardians were all in good spirits around him, even as Cayde clearly destroyed them in cards. Amanda was the only one alive that he knew of who could defeat Cayde in a hand of poker. It was why Zavala only challenged him to chess. Of course, one of the off duty scouts went to the makeshift bar and requisitioned a bottle of moonshine half the size of an oil drum, and everyone grabs a shot glass. Tables are pushed together into a strange almost square shape. Someone offers him a seat at the newly organized table and he politely declines.

They are playing some drinking game now, no cards required, no real stakes or bets - to Cayde’s disappointment, Zavala is sure. Each player begins by saying something they’ve never done, and it takes him a few rounds of watching Cayde drink or not drink to figure out that if someone has done something - “Killed a Fallen Captain,” (drink) or “beaten Marcus Ren in a sparrow race,” (abstain) to realize that they’re drinking if they’ve done the item someone says.

He’s sure this game has been played before in his presence, but now, it’s a valuable method of information gathering - assuming none of them are lying. Although, the rowdier they get, the more they call each other out on their fibs. It’s not horrible entertainment, though he certainly doesn’t require any, and everyone around him seems to be in good spirits.

“Never have I ever blown myself up with a grenade.”

Every single one of the guardians drinks, Cayde included. The humans shake their heads, and one of the scouts, a rougher looking woman says, “You lot are bloody crazy, you know that?”

The Guardians cheer, and the humans laugh. Zavala is proud of their camaraderie. It’s a testament to the success of this place. Things are progressing well. They’re working on a plan to move on the City. Cayde insists this Vex teleporter he’s brought back from Nessus will help them, though he’s still working out the specifics.

Cayde says, “Never have I ever made sweet, sweet love in my ship.” It’s a lie. He drinks.

About half of the group does as well, and Zavala rolls his eyes. Of course.

At some point, Hawthorne enters the tent, pushing aside the tattered tarp that’s acting as a door. Looks like she’s just gotten back from patrol, her boots are extra muddy, and she’s still got her gun slung on her back. A handful of scouts enter behind her and find a place to drop their packs.

The group at the table carries on, and a couple of them beckon her over. Even Cayde does, his whine of “Poncho,” amid the rest of the group’s calls of “Hawthorne!” She shakes her head, looking amused. Heads in the direction of the bar.

The next person takes their turn, a loud-mouthed man with hair the same orange as the trim of Shaxx’s armor. He yells, with a mild slur, “Nev’r ‘ave I ev’r... punched Executor Hideo in the face!”

The scouts laugh, raucous and loud. The Guardians find it funny as well. Hawthorne turns from the bar, steps up behind the boisterous man, and takes his full glass of moonshine out from under him.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” She says, with a smirk that’s borderline deadpan. She knocks the glass back to more whooping and carrying on from the group, only to look up and make eye contact with him.

Zavala winces when she looks away immediately.

The Guardians, those who aren’t too gone in the throws of intoxication and merriment look at her in surprise. Cayde looks tickled by the information, as well, shouting over the noise, “Wait, wait, hold everything. You’ve punched Executor Hideo. You? Poncho,” He says, like someone would great an old friend, “Poncho, Poncho, Poncho. Wait. Are you lying?” He looks around the group. “Is this a game? You guys trying to pull one over on me?” He crosses his arms and the plates of his eyebrows narrow. “Tell me the truth.”

“Ey,” A dark-skinned man says, rubbing his beard, “The hell you think she had to leave the City in the first place?” He gestures toward where she had been, a moment before. “Tell ‘im, Hawth- where the fuck did she go? Damn it, Schwin,” The man looks around the room. His eyes settle on the Commander and he rubs the back of his head this time. “No wonder she ain’t stick around. We got a damn audience.”

“Audience?” Cayde’s brow furrows a bit more, and he looks in the direction that the scout does. “Please. Zavala doesn’t pay attention to this sort of thing.”

“Bet he does, when someone talks about his pal Hideo,” One of the women grits out lowly. She’s got the guts to turn and look at him as she says it. Zavala’s features do not change from the blank countenance he adopted after Hawthorne looked his way.

He can read a room, and he knows the Farm is not exactly Faction friendly territory. The Commander finishes his mug of ale as the group changes the subject to something safer, lighter, more appropriate for carrying on without giving away what was clearly not meant for the ears of the top brass (made Zavala wonder what they considered Cayde, considering he was loose-lipped and a member of the Vanguard trio). Cayde’s eyes seem to burn just a little brighter at him when he takes his leave.

_I’ll see what else I can learn,_ they say. Hunters thrive on gossip. He’s sure there’s plenty of information in the rumor mill here that Cayde will be able to milk out of them through the course of the night.

Zavala wanders over to the largest of the fire pits - close to the lake and the Farmhouse. He didn’t intend to find her - actually the opposite. Cayde would find out information, he would draw a conclusion, and then he would address it when the time came. It seems fate has other plans, and she scoffs in mild fury when he sits down and does a double take to see her on the bench to his right.

They had been on tentative ground, only trading insults when things were especially tense. It was almost a release for them both, insulting each other, not apologizing, then picking up where they’d left off the following day with curt professionalism. It probably wasn’t healthy, but it worked well enough.

They’d even ran an op together - a very small, insignificant one - without screaming at each other afterward. Hawthorne handed him the reigns on the thing easily, and provided tactical support without griping about his command style. He wouldn’t call it pleasant, and she definitely did not agree with him on his bull-rush approach to infiltrating the small insurgent group of Cabal based on her body language.

She crosses her arms and looks pointedly at the fire. Not willing to say a word, it seemed. Zavala sighs after a few long, charged moments. “Did you really punch the Executor?”

It’s like the levee breaks. “What the hell is it with you? I clearly do not want to discuss it, which is why I left the fucking tent!” Her eyes blaze with the reflection of the fire in them. It reminds him of solar light for a moment. She continues when he doesn’t stop staring at her intently. “Why are you playing dumb? I’m sure you heard all about it from Hideo.”

“I assure you,” He says, dropping his voice to the least threatening timbre he can, not trying to provoke. He doesn’t realize that his attempts at being soothing only infuriate her more. “I know nothing about it. It isn’t even on your record.”

“Uh huh,” She rolls her eyes, looking back at the fire again. “Sure it isn’t.”

“Would you like me to recite yours to you? I memorized it before I came here.” Well, he thinks, that’s probably not going to make things better. It’s the truth, though.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” She looks over at him. He’s obviously not misleading her, she’s seen a wide array of looks from him over the last few weeks, and this one does not indicate a ploy. Hawthorne scoffs. “Seriously? You really hate me that much, huh?”

“You were a criminal with a great deal of power. It makes sense to get to know one’s enemies, analyze them for weaknesses.”

Her laugh is humorless. “Still a criminal, don’t forget it,” Suraya says, doubting he ever could. She thinks about Devrim telling her to try and get along with him, of all the concessions she’s been trying to make, of all the good she’s trying to do. It’s like he undermines everything. She doesn’t want to sit here and discuss the blow-by-blow of her youth. Especially not with someone who is an avid supporter of the nimrod she punched as a teen.

“Your scouts seemed to be under the impression that Executor Hideo-” He barely pauses, but he definitely notices the bristle of the woman beside her at his name, “Exiled you from the City.”

She shrugs. “Minor details, I suppose.” Schwin, that damn loud-mouth, was going to have quite a great time working through his hangover tomorrow, she thought darkly. Should have known better than to bring this up in front of the Vanguard.

“Not minor,” Zavala contests. His lips purse as his head shakes slightly. “The Factions, while they may have some political clout, cannot exile citizens from the City. That is a matter for the Consen-”

“Don’t yank my chain, Zavala,” She tells him tiredly. Her voice is sharp. “You know all about my criminal record, right? So, you had to know I was stealing supplies from New Monarchy. Got away with it… until I didn’t. The Executor happened to be around with his little posse, talked some shit, and suddenly, his face got in the way of my fist.” Her eyes burn, but this time it has nothing to do with the reflection of the flames. He can see her rage crystal clear. “Broke that fucker’s nose on the first try. He’s lucky it’s all I broke, for what he said to me.”

“Hawthorne. The Factions cannot-”

“He went to my house,” She says, and her voice is tight. Her eyes, while hot with rage, are cloudy and far away. “Threatened my family, told them he was going to kick me out. That I needed to be punished, for taking what they don’t need and giving it to people who did.” She looks back at him, expression dark, but more neutral. “I’m sure the both of you have pretty similar opinions of my worth,” She says without malice, as if she’s accepted her fate. “But there is no way I would have let my family suffer by following me out there. You might think otherwise, but I’m not that bad of a person. Marc and Dev took me in. I wasn’t going to let them pack up and leave because Hideo was throwing me out for something I did.” A sharp pull of breath tears her eyes away from the fire and onto him. He’s looking at her like she’s someone he hasn’t seen before. It’s uncomfortable and she looks away quickly.

Zavala absolutely cannot look away from her. The amount of information thrown at him is huge. He knew (until now, apparently) very little about her. But, he knows she isn’t a liar. She’ll admit to her crimes, her unpopular opinions, her shortcomings. It’s one of the few positive traits he’s come to attribute her with. This information, however...

“You’ll have to forgive me,” He says, after the crackle of the fire has been the only sound between them for a few moments. “This is-” He doesn’t quite know how to finish. “Hawthorne, first and foremost, the Executor could not have exiled you from the City without the backing of the Consensus.”

“Yes, well, if the Consensus doesn’t know,” Her eyes are dark, “Then it doesn’t really matter, does it?” She looks at him. “How often did you go down to the City, huh?” She doesn’t look at him cruelly, but she isn’t kind, either. She knows the answer and it’s not often enough to know. “New Monarchy is powerful,” She says quietly. “Make no mistake. Hideo was going to exile me. If Marc and Dev tried to stop it, both of them would have found themselves without jobs, because someone was pulling the strings. Or, maybe someone would have broken into our home, taken every last valuable. Nothing life threatening, per se,” She looks at him seriously. “But they would have suffered. No one suffers because of me.”

Silence falls over them once more. Zavala finally ventures, “So you left the City because you believed Hideo was going to exile you anyway,” He concludes, speaking slowly.

She doesn’t argue with him on it, just nods. He’ll see it however he wants. She’s used to people only hearing the bits they want to hear. “More or less,” She says. “Never stopped me from coming back in when I needed to see them or make a ‘delivery,’” She quotes with her fingers. “Only reason why that rap sheet you memorized is as long as it is is because any member of New Monarchy was required to report to the Executor if they saw me. I wasn’t pretending to be a militia officer for intel, this is my first time fighting a war.” Her wide eyes look over in his direction. “Honestly, I just wanted to see my family, and the poncho’s kind of a giveaway.” She shrugs when he appears to squirm uncomfortably. “Anything I brought in, they assumed was stolen, so if I got caught, I got arrested. Some of it, sure, I did steal, and maybe I did ‘accidentally’ set a building or two on fire that wasn’t safe for people to work in, but not all of it. I’m only, I don’t know, maybe three-quarters as bad as that my record gives me credit for? I’m not sorry about it, in any case.”

The woman leans back against the bench, oddly pensive as she looks up at the sky. Zavala remains quiet, still looking at her strangely. She pays him no mind. The stars are bright. “I’ve lived outside your city’s walls for more than half of my life now. I don’t mind it. Food’s way better in the City, but I’ve taught these guys how to make some decent things over a campfire. And, y’know, I knew somewhere to bring people when things went to hell, so I guess it’s where I needed to be, y’know?”

His gut is churning. He thinks of the points he’s gathered. Suraya Hawthorne considers Marc and Devrim to be her family, which seems to go both ways. Hence Devrim’s asserting that she’s not a bad person. Hawthorne clearly believes that Hideo could have exiled her, to the point where she left the City, and has lived outside of the City for more than half of her life… time?

“Hawthorne, how old are you?” The question slips unbidden from his lips.

“I’ll be twenty-nine in the spring.” Her brows furrow. Of all the information she’s thrown out, it’s not like she’s got any more juicy secrets. Not that this was one, really. He probably would have found out eventually with Cayde in the picture. “Why?”

Zavala stands. Paces. It’s strange to watch. She’s used to being the anxious one, which, she is, but he looks like he’s spinning his thoughts in circles. Did she break him by making herself appear human or something?

“Suraya.”

Her brain stops. Everything goes quiet. When she swallows before speaking, it sounds loud in her ears. “Uh,” That is her name, but he’s never used it before. “Yeah?”

“How old were you when this occurred?” His voice is low. She recognizes it from when she’s one witty reply away from inciting a fight. Is he going to get mad at her for this? What the hell?

He’s looking at her raptly, waiting for a reply. Tense. “Fourteen, maybe fifteen? I was mature for my age,” She defends. Makes it sound less convincing, she realized.

“You were a child,” He breathes, dropping heavily into the bench. “And Devrim let you go?”

“They wanted to come, but I would have run away if they tried. They knew I would, too. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but they never would have let me go if they didn’t also believe your friend Hide-”

“He,” Zavala spits, “Is _not_ my friend, regardless of whatever you’ve been led to believe.”

“Oh-kay then,” She’s suitably chastised by his glare, but the venom in his words are what makes her pause, makes her believe him. “He wanted me punished. Severely. That’s what he told Devrim. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

Zavala looks at her. He refutes her immediately. “I believe you.”

Hawthorne looks surprised. “You - what?”

“I believe you.” His eyes are blisteringly bright on her own. “I don’t need to ask Devrim.”

She feels some of the animosity between them break away. For such a heavy discussion - it actually was not much of an argument, even - she feels lighter. He’s a man of his word. If he says it, she believes him, which is also surprising, but her gut has never led her astray, so she’s going to trust it now.

“I-” She sighs. “Thanks.”

“This,” He gestures between them, indicative of the conversation that’s just occurred. “I will address it when we take back the City.”

“Yeah?” She sounds almost enthusiastic about the prospect. “You might not get a choice in the matter. The Clans rally over unity, not profit. They’re not going to stop just because you Guardians take back their home. They’ll keep the Factions in check, and they’ll expect your Consensus to hold them responsible if they don’t.”

He gives her a sideways glance. They rarely talk about the clans, rarely talk about anything, really. This might be the first time it’s less business-professional and more conversational. She’s confident, but not overtly so. He’ll indulge her. “Is that so?”

“I mean, I started them to give the people hope. Make them feel less alone.” Her eyes drift from the fire. “They grew way more out of hand when your Guardians realized they could have ten or twenty people in their group instead of a six man Fireteam. They recognize the need to stick together. Not to say they’re not without their issues. Cayde’s making some cheerleader clans that make me gag.” She rolls her eyes animatedly, and smiles at him. He’s unable to look away. Has she ever smiled at him before? Certainly in front of him, but not at him. “But for the most part, they’re doing some real good. Everyone feels safer together.”

“Do you?”

“What?” She looks at him incredulously.

“Obviously you’ve joined a clan, right?”

“ _Me?_ Nah. No way. I’ve always operated solo. This is a biiiiiiiig undertaking, overseeing everyone and their clans. I’m not about to burden someone else with my issues if I can’t take the pressure, you know?”

“I do.”

They look up at each other at the same time, blinking owlishly at the discovery of common ground. She smiles again, small and secretive. He offers one back.


	6. Chapter 6

Zavala is not the same man he was before the City fell. He is quieter, if that's possible. More worried. Far more pensive, or, more aptly, lost in his thoughts.

When the three of them sit together - finally, finally together - it's wonderful, it truly is, but…

… But Ikora's confidence and bravery has been shredded, cut by the fear of dying for good. Cayde feels caged and helpless and frustrated: so he makes everything even more of a joke than usual. Zavala knows he cannot lean on them the way he actually, desperately, really needs.

They, instead, lean heavy on him. Ikora whispers her fears to him in the dark. Cayde clings to Ikora and looks to Zavala to tell them everything is going to be okay.

He should have more hope, he thinks. He should not feel so hopeless, so empty. Things were moving in the direction they needed to. He had his Fireteam. They were together. Unstoppable, once. Maybe they would all live to see the end of this.

Zavala wants to believe they will. He lays himself back in the sweetgrass of the hill overlooking the field and gazes up at the sky. He doesn't know the last time he slept. Can barely remember the last meal he ate that wasn't a protein ration. He is a soldier, and certainly things have been worse, be it centuries ago or not. He sighs.

He wants to go home. Wants to feel the Tower deck plates under his feet and know where he stands with everything. Wants to have his Light, feel it like a spark inside him instead of feeling hollow and empty and colder than ice. He feels half alive, like a man who has no business living.

A real blanket is draped over him at some point, eyes too out of focus from being lost in his introspection to regard the source. It smells of spices, like sachets of tea and bergamot. Like the City Bazaar. Maybe it had been atop a crate of supplies, tucked under the top if the wood to prevent the items inside from breaking. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the smell. If he closes his eyes, it's not the same but…

She does not make a sound. Barely moves. When Louis lands on the ground beside them she holds a finger to her lips as if he's going to understand what she's telling him. He loses interest quick, when neither person acknowledges just quiet chitter or the flap of his wings.

Suraya feels bad, a little, for ignoring her bird. But also, she's worried. The big bad Commander didn't exactly get the spring in his step she thought he would from his buddies in the Vanguard coming back to Earth. She thinks he looks more weighed down than ever.

And that swirly awoken skin magic did wonders to hide the bags under his eyes, but she'd seen (read: argued with) him in close proximity long enough to know what tired looked like. No wonder he conked out two minutes after she threw that blanket over him.

She decides to keep watch, keep others - and enemies - away. Her rifle lays beside her, and the mild hill has a decent enough view of the forest. She turns down her radio to a pale whisper of static and keeps her eyes on the treeline.

Time passes. It's almost morning, the skies dark but stained lavender and orange at the horizon, a gradient that dips beyond the horizon, promising the herald of dawn. He stirs, brows furrowing and a quiet gasp breaching his pale lips.

Hawthorne has never been one to think before acting when it comes to helping others. It's why her fingers dance across the wrinkles in his brow to smooth them, and she shushes him with a reassuring whisper before she remembers herself. This man is not her friend and she shouldn't.

And yet, when he starts pleading under his breath, a combination of, “Help us, answer us, anything… please. Please,” Her chest constricts as his mumbling fades into unintelligible words, his face contorting, wrought with despair.

“It'll be okay,” She tells him, smoothing his brow. He rolls toward her, curled in on himself. She's sure it can't be comfortable in his armor, she's slept in hers enough to know. “We're going to get through this,” The words tumble from her mouth. She's terrible at consoling people. Hell, she can't even console herself. “I promise. Just rest. It'll be okay.” She repeats it like a mantra. “It's alright. Just sleep.” Eventually, he does, soundlessly sinking into the blackness of oblivion. She does not move, empathy winning out.

It's not the sound of dawn that wakes him, or the discomfort of his pauldron digging into the meat of his arm. It's a quiet voice and a gentle brush of knuckles against his forehead that draw him up out of the hazy embrace of sleep.

“No, don't wait for me. I'm busy. …Yeah, everything’s fine.”

His eyes blink heavily, setting his gaze on red and periwinkle, his head cradled upon the familiar garment like a pillow that smells of jasmine, wind, and sky. Wild, rugged, soothing. And yet, a perfect compliment to the notes of lingering notes of spice on the blanket that brushes his jaw.

He looks up at her through his eyelashes. She appears contemplative and serious as she stares out at the rising sun to the east. Dark eyes like mahogany heartwood scan the horizon, her body alert, yet she does not stop the gentle movement down the side of his face, the caress oddly out of place and yet unbelievably comforting.

When was the last time someone attempted to console him, he wonders.

Without the poncho, Hawthorne is far smaller of a woman than she appears. He can see the muscle tone of her arms beneath the thermal shirt she wears, and the lip of composite armor beneath her. A thick, dark braid trails down her back, and stray pieces frame her face. She looks less severe and yet, more like a soldier than he’s seen. A fierce, warrior’s kind of beautiful, maybe. A sidearm is clipped to the back of her belt, at the small of her back, a multitool is tucked into her waistband.

She is quiet. Calm. The roar of failure that’s been rushing in, in between heartbeats, the hollow feeling of inadequacy, the fear of failing humanity, of allowing their existence to blink out like a dying star, it's… been reduced, somehow.

The only thing he can focus on between breaths is her featherlight touch. It's warm. How can it be so warm? He tilts his head, shifting the way her fingers move. Her palm opens at the movement beneath her fingers, hand resting on his cheek while her thumb traverses the bottom of the pale tattoo that stains his face in an icy blue below his too bright eyes.

“They shouldn't be looking for you for another hour or so,” She says into the cool air, as if she's talking to someone else, not to the battered, worn out Commander at her side. Her gauntlet lays in front of her feet, knees pulled up to her chest, “If you need more time.”

His eyes snap up to hers, but she does not move her hand, even when she looks down at him finally. She does not smile exactly, but she doesn't frown, either. He sighs.

“Being the strong one all the time can't be easy,” She says, when he makes no effort to move. “It's been, what? Two, almost three months since the City fell? I can't believe I'm handling all this,” She gestures with the hand not touching him at the Farm, “As well as I am. I can't imagine being in your shoes for… well, however long you've been running things.”

“It is not as easy as it looks,” He concedes, trying to make light of it, but his slept-in voice betrays him.

“You almost had me fooled,” Hawthorne replies, and this time, her lips quirk up just a little. “I thought nothing got under your skin. Turns out, I was wrong.” Her laugh is a little self depreciating, “About a lot of things, actually.”

“Oh?” It's a gravel-laiden whisper from his lips. He wonders if she's been psychoanalyzing him all night, or maybe herself as well.

“Don't let it go to your head,” She quips. She's certain they both could make a few concessions in the other's favor. “Anyway, if,” The Clanswoman falters, the tingle of anxiety causing her thumb to still on his face for a beat before she powers through. “If you need someone to talk to, I'm here, you know? Won't pretend I can relate to your fancy-pants Guardian mumbo-jumbo, but I know how things make me feel, and you're… not the unfeeling sentinel I thought you were.” She shrugs, continues sliding her thumb down his face. “It can be… good, talking. Anyway, offer's on the table, if you want.”

He hums in what she thinks might be assent and relaxes, the right side of his face half buried in her poncho. “I should have stopped all this,” He admits. “I was not strong enough-”

“You made the decisions you believed were best,” She says, matter of factly. “Or do you not remember screaming that at me, I don’t know, twenty million times?”

“You do not-” He breaks off, defeated still, “It's… different.”

“It isn't.” She relaxes her legs, leans back on her elbows, and regards the sky. His face feels cold when she withdraws her hand. “You thought about it, as much as you could have, given the situation. I know you wanted to save everyone. I heard about who held the Plaza until the very end, even when their Light was ripped out of them.” She speaks softly, respectfully - but not in the way a subordinate speaks. She has, even when they fought, always treated him as an equal. It’s strange to hear her speak of him so positively.

“Hawthorne?”

“Huh?”

“Do you believe we can win?”

Her head whips to her left, expression incredulous.

“You’re kidding, right? Have a little faith, Commander.” She looks to her right, to the Farm. Back at him and his sad, glowing eyes. Her gaze softens as she smiles at him, in a way he's never seen. It's hope, he realizes. Radiant and bright, unyielding yet tender.

It's what they see, he realizes. These people. Civilians. Guardians. The Survivors. It’s what they see in her.

Hawthorne says, “I do, trust me. We're going to win this, Zavala. When we have a common goal, we can stand side by side and do anything we set our minds to. Guardians and civilians alike.” For a color so dark, her irises seem to flash like fire as she says, “We're going make those Cabal wish they never came here.”

His hand covers hers on the ground, squeezing it tightly for one tiny, brief moment. He sighs. He desperately wants to believe. “I hope you are right.”

It’s a few more moments before her fingers return to stroking the side of his face. “I know I am,” She tells him, with more conviction than she’s ever cared to muster. “And you know I live for saying ‘I told you so,’ so you better be ready for it when the time comes.”

For a second, she thinks she might have broken him, because he’s shaking under her palm. She pulls her hand away as he rolls onto his back, looking up at the golden sky and laughing quietly until tears run down his face and some of the weight on his soul is carried away.

It’s cathartic. It’s everything he needed.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

She smirks down at him. “Me too.”


	7. Chapter 7

Their salvage mission goes to shit quickly.

Acquiring the caches was the easy part. They were in and out of an old stronghold, one of Suraya’s own secret stashes, in less than an hour.

Then, the weather changes. It’s already cold, the skies are dark with heavy black clouds. The drizzle turns to snow not long after they start their trip back to the Farm. Their haul, pulled behind a large all-terrain rover, is much needed. The most important supplies (food, medicine, technology) are stored up in the front trailer or in the rover’s cargo compartment. The weaponry is stored in the rear trailer, not being a necessity, but certainly useful all the same.

The winds howl and cause issues with visibility, but the rover’s radar does a good job of keeping them on course. Holliday outdid herself on the upgrade. Of course, the radar only works when it isn’t being jammed by poor weather conditions and their enemies.

The sound of the pikes is muffled by the storm, and they’re only visible once they’re very, very close. Zavala curses. He’s the one who insisted on joining in on this op, she almost tells him, but she can see the shift of his jaw and realizes he’s nervous. If they stop, there is a very good chance there are more Fallen around and they’ll be sitting ducks.

“The rover should be able to outrun them,” The driver, one of Hawthorne’s scouts, informs them. She pushes the pedal to the floor of the cabin and they move a bit quicker, but not fast enough.

Zavala looks back at the group of scouts, suggesting, “We can try to shoot them off their pikes.”

They attempt to do so, but it’s difficult to see more than the approximation of the pike through the whiteout, and the cargo is more obstructive than helpful. The driver tries to drive a bit more erratically, but the rover doesn’t tolerate it well, and the carts only manage to slow them down even more. The Pikes are gaining on them.

Shots begin to pepper the bumper of the back trailer, and a few volley just barely over the roof of the rover. One of the impacts is so jarring it knocks one of the scouts into another, and they nearly lose someone out the back of the vehicle. Things are deteriorating. They need to get away.

Suraya takes a deep breath and carefully moves up to the first row of the rover, having a quiet conversation with the driver. They both nod, and the driver looks back at her once before setting her gaze firmly ahead.

“We’re going to let the weaponry in the back go. The second car should help us lose enough weight that we can get this thing up to full speed, and the Fallen are desperate enough for supplies that it should slow them down.”

The Commander nods. “Good thinking, Hawthorne.”

She tilts her head slightly with a dip of her chin. “Don’t thank me yet.”

It’s only when she makes it into the first trailer that one of the scouts sputters, “The trailers only disengage manually when in motion! She could use the crank-lever, but for that to work she’d have to be-”

Hawthorne doesn’t look back. The wind whips around her, and the Fallen pikes sound loud and close. She vaults into the back, bouncing hard against a crate of ammo. She looks up to see Zavala, already in the first trailer. That idiot. “Don’t do it,” He bellows across the gap between carriages. “We’ll find a away.”

There’s the zing of a shot that comes way too close for comfort. She can feel the heat from the arc pulse. “You know I have to,” She hollers back. “There’s no time for another plan.” She smiles at him, just a little. “It’ll all work out,” She tells him.

“Hawthorne-” He reaches out, indicating that she should take his hand. She knows she’d never disengage the trailer and reach for him in time.

“Looks like you win our power struggle,” She says, bending over the front of the trailer, reaching for the lever to release the trailer. “Win the war for us, Commander.”

She looks up to see his lips move, but she can’t read his lips, and the screech of the trailer disconnecting renders everything else mute. His face looks conflicted. Angry. Sad.

Looks like he didn’t hate me, after all, she thinks, as the trailer lurches backwards. It sends her flying. She feels the bloom of pain as her head bounces off something, but everything fades to black.

In the front of the rover, the driver shifts gears, pushes the pedal harder. She urges the bucket of bolts to move faster and it does. Zavala’s gaze is hot on the back of her head as he pushes to the front of the cabin.

“Stop the vehicle,” The Commander demands. “That's an order.”

“She thought you might say that.” The scout driving shakes her head in the negative. When he catches the side of her face, she's crying, twin tear tracks spilled down her face. “She ordered me not to stop, even if you told me otherwise. I’m sorry, sir.”

The explosion from behind them makes everyone wince. Through the storm, they can see the blaze of the abandoned weapons crates set ablaze. There’s no question now.

He throws his body into the seat beside her after a half hour of watching the road behind them. “Hawthorne knew what she was doing,” Zavala tells her, after a long silence. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either, sir.” The woman says. Her eyes don’t leave the beaten path that’s their road home.

-/

Life moves on. That’s what he reminds himself. War has casualties. Good people make sacrifices. It gets just a little harder every time. He didn’t even like her, he reminds himself. He tolerated her at best. She was a bratty woman, with no regard for rules, and no idea how to fight a war.

Trying to convince himself of those things made his stomach hurt. He didn’t hate her. He wanted to hate her. She was brave. Stupid, for doing what she did, even if it was the right thing, but brave.

He threw down the pen he was using to write his report. What was the point? Hawthorne was dead. She would have been the only other one to read it, she read every single report that was turned in. Everyone on the Farm knew she’d died to save their group. Anyone with half a clue about what was going on knew how important she was to their cause.

It said something to him that not even paperwork could wipe away his out of place melancholy. It said something else that he kept expecting her to walk into the barn and yell at him. That he misses it.

That he feels so damn lonely. (That he feels like he lost a friend.)

The mood is dark and heavy. Efforts continue, but it was clearer now more than ever that Suraya Hawthorne was the embodiment of hope for the remains of humanity. They crumpled without her. Even the majority of the Guardians were downtrodden.

It didn’t make sense to Ikora or Cayde though, not really. They hadn’t been here long enough to understand.

“What’s one less criminal in the world,” Ikora had said to him. “Seems like it should be a bit easier for us to keep everyone on the same path.”

Zavala had had to walk away. The fury that threatened to boil over was too much to be contained, surprising himself even. He’d since taken to avoiding the other two members of his Fireteam, giving himself plenty of time with his own unpleasant thoughts.

He identified with her, more than he did with his Fireteam. A mortal woman, a fraction of his age. A leader by necessity, not power-driven. A champion of the greater good. Hawthorne was a good woman, dammit. She didn’t deserve-

It’s a few deep breaths later, a moment of meditation to center himself, that he realizes that he has lost a friend. She hadn’t started out that way, but the last few months learning to work together have changed things. Funny how it takes death to make a person see past their prejudices. He hates that he could not see it before.

How different would this war have been if he’d come back from Titan viewing her as an asset - an ally - and not a liability? A friend, instead of an enemy? Acknowledged their common goals? He shakes his head. He can’t think that way. It’s not healthy. He cannot change the past.

Instead, he’ll win this war for her and everyone else they’ve lost, ensure a brighter future for generations to come. It’s the very least he can do. It’s his duty.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep at the beaten up table, because he wakes to the screaming cry of a bird of prey. When he blinks his eyes open, the bird is on the table in front of him, standing the report he’s been working on, talons putting holes in the paper. He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” He tells the falcon. “Your master won’t be coming home.” He’s surprised at how hard it is to say. It’s not as though his voice bows or cracks, but it does hurt. It was… nice, sharing the responsibilities with someone. Even if he had tried so hard not to at the onset. What a fool he'd been, he thinks.

Ever so wise for a bird, Louis cocks his head to the side, cheeps quietly, and nips the closest part of the Commander he can reach: his right index finger. The Commander yelps - more in surprise than in pain - and stares, not sure how to proceed.

“I don't know what you're trying to tell me,” Zavala ventures. He doesn't know what raptors understand. Doubts they know common language. He knows Hawthorne had whistled commands for him, maybe he could try…

At the first whistle, the falcon nips his finger harder, and this time it bleeds.

Zavala growls, a bit frustrated. “Okay, that doesn’t work. Louis, I don’t know,” He says, switching back to words he knows the bird doesn’t understand. “What do you want from me?”

Louis cries shrilly, and beats his wings where he stands on the table. Swivels his head to meet the Commander, cheeps twice, and skitters forward to provide a strange sort of headbutt to Zavala’s chin. It is bizarre behavior for a falcon, Zavala thinks, but Louis then takes off, more howling shrill calls coming from his small body as he soars through the door at a tear.

Zavala doesn’t see him for a few more days. Five, to be exact, since he and the scouting party returned down one de facto leader, and ripped the hope of the people to shreds. It’s almost evening, and the sky is turning dark. The only benefit of being Awoken is that his bright eyes have always done well in the dark, able to see at dawn or dusk much more clearly than human Guardians, even with their Light.

Louis circles high, calling out from time to time. Zavala’s been checking his position for hours. He would go do something - oversee a patrol, run a small strike - and scan the sky for him afterward. Louis would be there, a tiny dot in the distance, circling something he sees below the treetops.

As the night comes creeping in, Louis returns to the barn. Zavala’s barely left since he’s returned from their - in his eyes - botched mission. He lands on the shorter of the Commander’s pauldrons and taps him in the side of the head, gently enough for a falcon. His cry is soft but alert.

Tentatively, Zavala reaches up, and puts his fingers on the birds head, gently stroking down the back of his crown. Louis allows it, and it feels a bit like a victory. The bird trills another note and his wings expand, talons moving impatiently as he shifts from one side of his plasteel perch to the other. Zavala attempts to continue working once the predator stills, able to read even with the minuscule weight of the falcon added onto his shoulder.

Finally, as if having enough, the bird drops down, wings fully expanding, onto the worktable, directly in front of the Commander. He sticks out a talon with a shudder and calls out in a way that suggests irritation.

The Commander looks up from the report to regard him. “What are you-”

Attached to Louis’s talon is a scrap of periwinkle-blue fabric singed and faded. They’d seen the trailer go up in flames. If she was alive, she’d have to be very injured. His heart leaps into this throat.

“Show me,” He demands, voice waylaid with emotion, and the falcon makes a chitter as he takes to the evening air that says it’s about time you got the memo.

Louis flies more or less directly, moving from tree to tree and cheeping in his quietest volume to keep him on track. It’s not long before the falcon lands on the ground next to a wide tree. Zavala moves around an oak, hissing when he sees feet and legs come into view, on the ground.

“Just a little break,” He hears a quiet voice tell Louis, who looks away - eyes finding Zavala’s in the dark. “Gimme a minute,” She grits.

Zavala’s feet move before he realizes, and seemingly, without warning he’s at her side. “Hawthorne!” He breathes, and it’s relief and concern and he doesn’t know what to do with these feelings bubbling up in his chest.

Her head cants back against the tree trunk, dark eyes gazing over toward him in the dark. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” She tells him.

“We thought you were dead,” He replies, and the words are hot and ashen in his mouth.

“Thought I was, too,” Hawthorne grits out, pausing to take a few breaths. She’s clearly exhausted. “Help me up?”

He ignores her in favor of asking, “Where are you injured?”

“Ankle’s busted,” She points to her leg. “Bruised pretty much everywhere else. I’m fine.”

“It’s five kilometers to camp,” He says. “You can’t walk that on a broken ankle.”

She shrugs. “I’ve walked this far.”

He sighs, and his eyes close for a beat before opening and regarding her with worry. “You’re sure you’re not injured anywhere else?”

“I’m sure.” She’s cold and her head is swimming. She needs him to stop freaking out. “Calm down, okay?”

“I will not.” Suddenly, she’s hefted against a plasteel chestplate, one of his arms under her knees, the other wrapped snugly around her arms.

“You’re not going to put me down, are you?” She asks, reluctantly.

The Commander looks down at her, surprised at how close their faces are to one another, but shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Suraya retorts with a pout, unhappy about being manhandled but also surprisingly okay with not walking the rest of the way. “But only because my ankle really hurts.”

“Obviously,” Zavala replies. Then, “Relax. You must be exhausted.”

She nods, head thunking against the plasteel of his chest piece and staying there as he walks her back to camp. As a bit of last ditch resistance, she huffs, “I’m not some damsel in distress, you know.”

“I know,” He affirms warmly. She looks up at him, confused at his tone. “I’m just… glad,” He murmurs, “That you are alright.” Alive, his mind whispers. That she’s _alive_.

“You big softy,” She says teasingly, but when he meets her gaze, she falls silent.

There are feelings in his gaze she never thought she’d see directed at her.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything comes and goes in for her in fits and snatches of consciousness. Or maybe it doesn't. Sometimes, she thinks she's awake but then something strange happens, like people speaking in Eliksni or fire and screaming or people she knows are dead talking to her, standing next to her. Sometimes she thinks she's standing in an inferno. Sometimes she thinks she's still walking back to the Farm. None of it makes sense.

The first time she's positive she's come to, Devrim is talking to her, his voice low. He says things that are soft and unlike him, makes her think whatever it is that's happening to her, it must have him spooked. Her mouth doesn't work well - everything is hazy and blurry when she tries to respond, but his hand is grounding when it squeezes hers. “Dad?”

The relieved laughter she stirs up in reply is choked by a sob. She rarely calls him that anymore, worried about the implications for him with her reputation besmirched. “Suraya, love, you're going to be the death of me.”

“How many more grays you got?” Her voice sounds pitiful, scratchy, and hoarse. It feels like there's someone sitting on her chest.

“Not nearly as many as I should,” He quips lightly in return, emotions already back in check. The hand he places on her forehead is cool to the touch and she eases into it, barely open eyes sinking closed once more. She fights to open them again, there's no telling how long she's been out. There's a million things she should be doing.

Devrim tuts when she tries to force it. “Sleep, my darling girl. It's alright.” He hasn't called her that since she stood shorter than his shoulders. It's too easy to fall back to sleep with his hand smoothing over her head and hair. She feels like a little girl again, and she thinks she must be in a bad way as she says to hell with it in her mind and indulges.

When her breathing settles, Devrim sighs and leans back, stretching out his spine. He's getting too old for this, although he supposed one never outgrew being a parent. Suraya never failed to disappoint in the 'creative and daring child’ category.

He's almost asleep where he sits when he hears mindfully quiet footsteps approach the doorway.

“Take a break,” Comes the quiet voice of the Lightless Titan. “I'll sit with her until my patrol goes out this evening.”

“Commander,” Devrim says gruffly. “Really, it's no trouble at all. You don't-”

“She saved our lives,” Zavala says as if that explains everything. “In any case, you could use some rest, and I have plenty of work I can do from here that won't disturb her.”

Devrim sighs, reluctant to leave, but more than that, he's moved by the earnest look in the man's eye. The scout knows who brought her back, whom Louis chose to tell. He knows when he's beaten. “Alright. She should sleep through the afternoon.” Dev sighs. “Thank you, Commander. Do call on me if you need something.”

He knows he doesn't have to, but when Devrim comes back to check on them hours later the Commander is reading to her. His soft voice and her raspy breathing are the only two sounds in the room. He seems unaware of the world around him, for he does not notice when Dev peeks his head in to find Suraya turned on her side, pillows carefully adjusted under her bad ankle. She's turned in the direction of his voice, clearly finding his gentle lilt soothing. There's a rag on her forehead, meant to keep her comfortable.

The gentleman sniper almost enters the room to relieve Zavala of watch duty, but hesitates when he sees that one of the Commander's hands is laced with hers. There's nothing romantic about it, that's not what gives him pause. He knows that combat forges relationships, brushes with death inspire a sense of protectiveness not even the Commander can deny.

Marc always said Suraya had a knack for making a lasting impression on everyone she meets. Zavala certainly could have been sitting with his Fireteam, planning strikes, or doing literally anything else. Instead, he sits at his adversary's bedside reading Shakespeare to her as if they've always been friends. Dev sneaks away. A few more hours of sleep would certainly be welcome in these trying times, and Suraya is in good hands.

-/

Hawthorne might have no idea what day it is, but the only way to find out is to get outside and get moving. She feels far better than she's been, no weird floaty feelings in her head or liquid-drowny feelings in her chest. Also, the air in this room is too stagnant. Sitting still and-slash-or being a good patient is not her thing. No one stops her from taking a much needed shower, so she loosens her boot up all the way to ease her damaged leg into - damn is it swollen - and ignores the ache of bruised muscles in lieu of making her way outside.

The limp slows her down something fierce. By the time she makes it from the farmhouse to the barn, she can feel her heartbeat in her foot. Better that than to let people see her in crutches.

Shaxx looks at her with an indistinguishable expression - literally, because she's never seen him sans helmet - but his body language projects caution and concern. He remains silent, surprising even his frame as she gimps past him and into the back of the barn.

The Titan does a double take when she throws herself onto a stool adjacent to him at the decrepit table.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is raised.

It both confuses and annoys her. “Uh, what does it look like I'm doing?” She reaches for a stack of reports.

He scoffs. “You should be resting.”

“No.”

“Yes. Everything here is fine.”

“I'm fine, too, Zavala. Really. Tell me what's going on. Where do we stand? How long was I down for?”

“You should be resting,” He reiterates testily, as if she hasn't just asked him anything at all.

She shrugs. “Telling me what's going on is not going to hurt me.”

“No, but you'll want to help.”

To that she rolls her eyes. “Obviously. You don't need to coddle me. I'm fine.”

“Everything is taken care of. I'm used this, Hawthorne.” His eyes return to the report he's penning or revising - never can be sure with him. It's dismissive and she very much dislikes it.

“Is this - are you really trying to write me off here?” She gapes at him. “What the hell, Zavala!”

He does not look back up at her, and finally she reaches over and yanks the page out from under him, his pen leaving a heavy black line from it being pressed to the paper while it's being removed.

“Don’t be like this,” She implores, trying to will back her anger even as she sees the sparks fly in his arcbolt blue irises. “I want to help.”

“Yes, and I suppose that stunt you pulled was supposed to be you helping, too?”

“Stunt?” She blinks at him for a moment, the cogs in her brain turning as she puts together the pieces. “You all lived, didn’t you?” She pauses, before saying incredulously, “Are you mad at me? Seriously?”

He schools his features into something less expressive, though he cannot change the tone of his voice or intensity of his eyes. “We thought you dead for nearly a week. When you found your way back, it was on death’s door.”

“I'm sorry I took one for the team?” She phrases it like a question but she is clearly not sorry at all. “I knew how to disconnect the trailer and someone had to do it.”

“So you decided that the best course of action as a leader was to undertake that suicide mission yourself?” His voice is clipped, volume forcefully reduced.

She uncrosses her arms and throws her hands out in a non-threatening way. “What would you like me to say? Sorry? I'm not. You didn't have a plan either.”

“We would have thought of something, but then you had to go play the hero-”

“Oh, so I'm just in it for the glory now, that's what you think?”

He rubs his temples. “I think you believe it always has to be you making the sacrifice.”

“A reminder, Commander,” She says, as if she's alerting him to a task on his schedule, “You had another leader on that mission. I knew you’d see them back to safety. If one of us has to take one for the team, it can’t be you. I’m expendable. You’re not. You’ll be able to win this war without me. Might even make it a bit easier on you,” She says lightheartedly at the end.

That's apparently not what he wanted to hear, truth or not, because he rises to his feet and storms away, jaw working through angry ticks and eyes like glacial steel refusing to meet her gaze. She sighs and reaches for the stack of paperwork. He'll have to come back eventually.

...Except, he doesn't.

She finds out a while later that he took a group up north to clear out some Fallen insurgents. He won't return until dawn. She begrudgingly puts her bad ankle up and reads through the reports he's got organized there. There aren't nearly as many as she's expecting. Maybe it had been a rough week? She doesn't pay it much mind.

When she gets to the reports from the incident that caused all this drama, she's surprised to see that his handwriting is jagged and chaotic instead of its usual neat and orderly script. The report itself isn't even complete, the paper is crumpled as if it had been meant to be thrown away, and there are tears in the center of it, like claws had ripped it down the middle. There's nothing to glean from it, not like he's emotionally forward enough to write down anything but the strictest business, it is an 'official’ document anyway.

Hawthorne resigns herself to waiting for him to come back. The fires are warm, and the temperatures here are a bit milder than they were in the forest. It does her people some good to see her up and limping around.

Of course, it's not one of her own who approaches her first. It's the Tower Shipwright who plunks herself next to Hawthorne on the bench. Mason jar in hand, she sloshes it in the poncho-wearer's direction - Suraya declines - before taking a swig herself.

This ought to be good, she thinks to herself.

“I never thought I'd say this,” Holliday says, and her voice isn't at all addled by the moonshine. Hawthorne is grateful for that tender mercy. “But I'm glad you ain't dead.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“I thought that might be the end,” Amanda continues. “He never said nothin’ about it afterward, but he was different when he came back... after ya'd gone and did what you did.”

Zavala, Hawthorne realizes. She's talking about Zavala. She'd have to tread carefully. No one cared more about that big blue idiot than Amanda did. “Different?”

The Shipwright changes tracks. “You ever meet Eva Levante?” At Hawthorne's brief nod, Amanda continues. “He doesn't have many friends, the Commander. But the ones he picks have a couple things in common.” She takes another sip from the jar and sets it down. “They're good people. Care about everyone else far more than themselves. Eva always inspired hope in everyone. Reminded ‘em of what they fight for, just by bein’ herself. Sweet and good, y’know? Like everyone's grandma or somethin’.”

Hawthorne nodded again, but didn't see where it was going, not really. Amanda was kind of all over the place, with feelings and whatnot. Better to let her ramble than to piss her off, or worse - make her cry. She seemed like the crying type.

“Do you get it?” Hawthorne's eyes narrow on Holliday's sea green ones. “You don't.” Amanda scratches the back of her head. “Did you know that when the City fell, I was out running rescue flights?”

Hawthorne shook her head. She hadn’t ever given it any thought. Made sense, though.

“So the Commander tells me to come get him from the Plaza, that they're going to order an evacuation of the City. Abandon it, really.” Amanda sighs. “I was furious. Told him I wasn't his damn chauffeur, just like that.” She looks to Hawthorne. “I've known him for almost as long as I've been in the City. Ain't never seen nothin’ make him so hopeless.” Amanda smiles fondly and continues. “He's strong, Hawthorne. Strongest man we'll ever meet, believe you me. But he's delicate, too. Those shoulders 'a his are big, but he can only shoulder so much.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Holliday says, “My folk look to him for strength. For hope. Or at least they did, until you came 'round. We got back from Titan and here you were.” Holliday gestures widely toward her. “An’ I think, if ya ask me, he hated ya for it.”

Hawthorne did her best not to roll her eyes or give away the fact that anyone with eyes or ears knew that.

“You were here doin’-” She flaps her arm in the direction of the main drag of the Farm “-an’ I'm sure he thought that if you could do it, certainly he coulda, ya know? But he left, an’ here we are. Here YOU are. I'd fight 'n die for 'em, ya know. The Guardians. Vanguard. All 'a that. But 'til now, I know they've looked down on us, jus’ a li'l. Didn’ understand. Maybe they couldn't.” Amanda sighs again, and flops back against the bench. The alcohol is catching up with her.

“Look, when ‘e came back withoutcha, I just, it killed me to see. It was like everythin’ we'd done had been for nothin’, almost. Between us girls, I’m startin’ ta think maybe he'd gone and done what the rest of 'em did, ‘n put his hope in you.”

“I didn’t ask for that,” Hawthorne says, after a long silence.

Amanda shrugs. “No, guess not.” They both look at the fire, Amanda knocks over the empty mason jar, kicking it under the bench. Hawthorne shifts her bad ankle painfully.

“So,” The Shipwright starts, moving closer to Hawthorne. Invading her personal space, really, with their shoulders touching and her head practically on the Farm’s leader’s shoulder. “What made you do it, anyway? Do all of this,” Amanda gestures to their surroundings as she yawns. “I mean, you don’t gotta tell me, but I’m curious.”

Hawthorne looks out toward the lake, and the City far, far beyond. Whispering quietly, she says, “Hope.”

“See what I mean?” Amanda mumbles, but she’s snoring by the time she finishes asking the question.

It takes a few deep breaths to prevent the overwhelming anxiety from sweeping her away. Hawthorne’s heart beats a little faster. She never asked for this. Never asked for any of this. That’s what she thought. But she did, in a way. She did this to herself, no one asked her to lead them. They had needed a leader, needed hope, and she stepped up. Turns out that was what endeared her to the Commander. He felt betrayed because she’d left him - no matter the reason, no matter how good that reason was - to finish the fight alone.

She forces herself to calm down. They’d been amiable enough for weeks now, they’d been hedging quietly towards being friends for quite a bit. But now, now the truth of it all is here to smack her in the face, to scream and point and tell her that there is no going back now. She’s in this one for the long haul. They’re allies now, like they very well should have been all along.


	9. Chapter 9

To her surprise, it isn’t Suraya herself who has to extend the olive branch. The Commander joins her in the spot Amanda had vacated an hour or two before, looking bone-tired and wary. He pushes a mug of tea into her hands, having brought one for each of them.

“Thanks,” Hawthorne says, lifting the mug to her lips and letting the warm, earthy taste soothe her. Zavala nods in reply, but does not say much. Hawthorne looks down into her mug, and sighs before letting it sit on the wide plank that acts as an armrest.

“Look-” They both say at the same time. It’s laughable, really. Both recoil a bit, eyes meeting and flashing away quickly. They’re terrible at this.

Zavala motions for her to go ahead. She shakes her head. “No. I pissed you off this time,” She says ruefully, turning toward him as best she can before retrieving the mug behind her on the armrest. “Let me have it.”

He’s silent for a few moment, obviously selecting his words carefully. “What you did was… admirable,” He finally says. “I cannot say I would not have done the same… if it had come to that.”

She bites the inside of her lip and looks down and away, nodding just a tiny bit.

“But, Hawthorne, we cannot win this war without you.” And then, quieter, “I cannot win this war without you.”

That does garner a chuckle from her, a mildly nervous one, intent on belaying the intensity of the emotions he’s bringing to the surface in them both. “You’re kidding me, right? You could absolutely win this war without me,” She says. “How many battles have you seen them through?”

The Commander shakes his head. “It isn’t that.”

“Look,” Hawthorne tells him, “I’m one person. I get that I’m the one that everyone’s seen, the ‘leader,’” She air quotes. “But don’t think for a second that you need me to win this.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” Zavala finally admits, and his eyes are so very blue - glassy and clear, like pools of the arc-light that she’s seen Guardians use in the past. “I don’t want to do this without you. I will, but-”

“I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?” She shrugs. “Would’ve been a lot easier to give up out there, instead of dragging my ass back here.” She casts a gaze over at him.

He stiffens. That’s true, he thinks. He wouldn’t dream of saying it aloud.

“I’ll make you a promise,” She says, after a few moments go by.

His eyes drag over to hers from the fire. “A promise?”

“A promise.” Hawthorne smiles gently. “Between two leaders of this chaos we’re calling a rebellion. Or, you know,” She rolls her eyes, as if she cannot believe she’s saying it, “Friends.”

Uneasy is the best word to describe his expression. She’s pretty sure he’s not used to that sort of thing - friends? - really, that makes two of them. She’d been thinking about this all night, but, if she’s to trust what Amanda says, it needs to be said between them.

“Alright,” Zavala says carefully. “Let’s hear it,” He breathes, not with malice but concerned all the same.

She takes a deep breath and goes for it. “We’re going to do this together. Win this war, take back the Traveler, get your Light back, all of it. Together. I can’t promise you I won’t sacrifice myself for the greater good, because that’s who I am, but I’m not going to leave you alone to fight this war by yourself if I can help it. Fair?”

He sits quietly for a few moments, thinking it through. She returns her gaze to the fire. It’s several moments later that he relents. “Fair,” He tells her. He relaxes against the bench and, unlike Amanda earlier, when he nods off beside her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest.

-/

A week or so later, something interesting happens.

Amanda stops dead in her tracks, eyes locking on cyan optics coming from the direction of the Cryptarch. Cayde waggles his brows and puts a finger to his mouth plates. They duck down and meet in the middle, beneath one of the cracked windows of the rickety Farmhouse, frozen still and listening carefully.

Sarcasm laden words ring out, but the playfulness behind them shines through. Hawthorne tells Zavala, “You took the words right out of my mouth. Let’s not make this a habit, okay?”

That’s interesting, and Amanda looks at Cayde, who looks back with a little, curiosity-driven tip of his head. But that’s not the kicker.

The kicker is the warm, low laugh of their depressed-as-of-late Commander, rich and full. “We’ll see,” He tells Hawthorne, and returns to the task at hand. Amanda always said his laughter was a balm on the soul, and she stands by that.

Cayde, however, has his mouth stuck in a very surprised ‘o’ shape. Amanda nudges him with an elbow to move from where they sit. Zavala is back on track, encouraging the Guardian to decimate a Fallen Pike gang, and Hawthorne is relaying information from reports while he’s not speaking over the air.

“Since when,” The Exo whispers, when Amanda gives him her best impersonation of Zavala’s ‘look’ to remind him to be quiet, “Did Big Blue and Poncho start doing the dirty?”

“They aren’t,” Amanda whispers back, vehemently. “Up until a bit ago, they were barely speaking.”

“Amanda. Sweet, innocent, Amanda. They’re banging,” Cayde drops it on her, like a ton of bricks. “They’re absolutely banging.”

The Shipwright scoffs. “Yeah right, buddy.”

“I’m not kidding! If they aren’t doing the deed,” Cayde presses, “They will be soon. Hawthorne was flirting, and Zavala was totally into it.”

“Hawthorne doesn’t know what flirtin’ is,” Amanda tells him.

“No?”

“No,” She insists.

The Hunter Vanguard knows an opportunity when he sees one. He smirks.“Then how about a little wager?”


End file.
